


Don't Wait For The Afterlife

by Eorendel



Category: Captain America (Movies), Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Bromance, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Domestic Avengers, Drama, Eventual Happy Ending, Everyone Has Issues, Feels, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gen, Headcanon, Hurt/Comfort, Hydra (Marvel), M/M, Minor Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Pepper is around here so ha!, Post-Canon, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Steve Has Issues, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-27 01:00:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5027611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eorendel/pseuds/Eorendel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Helicarriers fell into the Potomac, Steve wasn't the only one looking for the shadow of James Buchanan Barnes.  Everybody wanted to acquire what it could be very well called a perfect asset. However, said soldier had other plans on his own. His fights weren't limited against his pursuers. Maybe it was wishful thinking to expect kismet from chronicles of bad luck, but then again, he had never believed in anything called luck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Wait For The Afterlife

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stirlingphoenix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stirlingphoenix/gifts).



Coney Island’s piers weren’t the same; the air tasted foul and foreign. The ocean looked the same, but it wasn’t like before. Every riptide felt unwelcoming. He thought about the images flashing in his mind, like a film, two pictures blurred together in an instant; black and white – no color – just soundless recordings interpolated in an endless strip. If he closed his eyes, a thing he rarely did, he could almost go back to that time – be there, where blue eyes looked up at him; where sometimes he was too cold and hungry but warm if the blue eyes were looking at him.

After visiting the museum, he understood – actually, only clarified the information given by his last mission – who he once was. A soldier. A friend. A person. Someone – _something_ – that was more. However, it was irrelevant. What he once was, was currently of no importance. He was being followed and he needed to escape. He was on the move, never staying longer than necessary in one place at a time.

Freedom. He understood he wasn’t shackled anymore. He did not need to report to his handlers. No more cold. No more darkness. No more pain.

He could not believe it.

And he didn’t.

Despite knowing who he was in the past, almost a century ago, he still was what he was up to this point: an assassin, a methodical strategist, and a trained soldier.

He was not James Buchanan Barnes, and he was not the asset known as ‘The Winter Soldier’ either. He was much more than either, and far less than both.

No, he couldn’t use those names anymore. Even ‘The Asset’ was discarded when the Hydra facade fell. He was not the property of the organization that brought him back from an icy chamber anymore – years after years, brought back to life, over and over.

Freedom.

He had no name. But, he still had his skills (weapons, languages, experience, training, and knowledge that was different from the memories of his past); and slowly – driven purely by emptiness – he planned on remembering the years that were dormant in the deepest parts of his broken mind.

Memories were not a scattered set of dots in a piece of paper that could be completely erased at the whims of anyone. Memories were a line of dots that could be inhibited. They could not be eradicated with electricity as if they were useless weeds. They weren’t erased, but forgotten. They weren’t lost, but hidden. Memories were things that could be brought back. He was a living proof of it.

He found himself more than once struck by a rapid fire of moments at random times. The triggers were mostly caused by his own hand. He wanted to learn more about his past, because even if his past to this point was entirely trivial, it was still his. It was the only thing that he possessed. A thing that he couldn’t control. Yet.

He set himself a task – an arduous and probably pointless task.

He would remember everything: his missions, the people he murdered, the places he had been at, the things he had eaten; the things he had seen, the things he had touched. He planned on remembering the years that were dormant in the deepest parts of his broken mind.

It was odd – the sensation of being allowed to “feel”. Most of the time he was numb to everything during and after his missions. Feelings were complicated, and his perception was often overridden by them. The most prominent feeling being _anger_. He neatly cataloged what he felt most of the time, anger, confusion and frustration. Those emotions were often shared alongside the fact that he was being followed, not only by international organizations of different sides of the law but also by his last mission – _him_ , the blue ghost – the man on the bridge.

He was alone. He wanted to be alone. He needed time and space to recollect himself and finish his self-appointed assignment. But as usual, what he wanted did not matter. Although, it was still a novelty – wanting – having desires of his own choice, making decisions.

So far, he had decided not to kill them. There had been a couple of close calls – for them obviously. But he hadn’t killed anyone.

He should.

He should put bullets into their bodies. He knew what they wanted. They wanted him because he was a perfect patchwork of abilities in the tattered core of a broken and malleable man. He fought – he fights – them over and over, because he hasn’t completed his task. There are still many latent memories in his mind.

One of them is blood, the same shade of red, stained on different surfaces. Blood that is familiar, but different. Blood that never goes away. Scarlet droplets spilling from unmoving lips, from open wounds, from lifeless corpses. There were few instances where he stayed to see what he did. His handlers learned not to leave him out for too long. Because once he was out of the ice, somehow, he was stubbornly repairing himself – maybe it was the serum, maybe it was the ghost of the small valiant man with blue eyes, maybe it was his own shattered will fighting even when it was crushed.

Weeks became months, and his memories were changing him. Another feeling was now constantly gnawing at him: regret. At first, his memories were nothing more than parts he wanted to recover and control, but the memories began to settle within him in a part he wasn’t aware he had. It manifested in the for of physical discomfort one afternoon when he went out from his current hideout.

A little girl was walking with her mother on the sidewalk. It was a trivial and common occurrence. Their location was hundreds of miles away from where he killed a family of three in the threshold of their home. He did not understand why they had him do it – he guessed they had their reasons, but were those reasons enough to take their lives? But now, seeing that little girl (different hair color, different age, different clothes, same smile) holding her mother’s hand, he felt a pang in his chest, he thought it was wrong – what he did – he thought it was unfair, he felt so overwhelmed and helpless by the flood of emotions, that he had to escape from the place, even if the little girl’s smile still haunted him in the back of his mind.

Later that same day, during the brink of a panic attack, for the first time in a long time, he felt a devastating emotional pain. He felt the futility of his situation (all alone against an army) crashing down on him, of his past (years almost foreign), of his actions and his consequences (murders), of what he had been ordered to do (killing innocents), and of the choices he didn’t make (being HYDRA’S puppet). Those would torment him until his last dying breath. He nearly drowned in hatred, thanks to those who had wronged him.

He wanted to kill them – kill them for what they made him do, kill them for what they did to him, kill them, kill them, kill them. _Kill, kill, kill_.

The next day, the police probably found three mauled, unrecognizable bodies in the dumpsters of a convenience store in the outskirts of Detroit. He didn’t feel anything from killing those contracted mercenaries. He was actually glad he had an opportunity to vent his rage. After that incident, it seemed like his pursuers thought twice before sending people after him. It was a breather from most of the organizations that were after him, except for one. He avoided his last mission’s party at all costs – he didn’t stop to think why he couldn’t name him Captain America, or by his given name. He couldn’t think about it, not yet.

Gradually, he was able to tame what he felt when the memories were too strong. He couldn’t control his feelings, and he wasn’t entirely sure he’d able to do it in the future. Some memories were too much, too raw, too painful, and most of those were linked to blue eyes. Always blue eyes. He turned away from those fiercely.

He remembered the war when he was still James Buchanan Barnes. He remembered the envelope and the neatly written paragraph that ordered him to go to war. He remembered not wanting to go to war. He remembered wanting to stay. He remembered the despair of knowing he was leaving someone important behind. Those memories exhausted him greatly. His mind went into overdrive, depriving him of sleep, and tiring him to the bones. It seemed that in those days, where he could barely sleep, his last mission – that one who he could not name – seemed more insistent in his endeavor to get to him.

One night, he caught his reflection in the mirror of his current residence for the night. A question crossed his mind: Is this me? Soon after, another one appeared as his hand patted his three day-old beard: is this my flesh? And another one: Is this my skin? _Do these hands belong to me?_

He looked down at them with his palms up – one shiny metal, and the other one pale skin. He turned them around lightly, both moving at his command. They moved because he wanted them to move, just like his handlers moved him because they wanted him to move. Was his left arm a borrowed arm, or it was his? He didn’t feel any animosity towards his left arm. He thought, even if he still had his real arm, it wouldn’t have changed anything. He would have still needed two arms to kill. They would have still made him into The Asset, into The Winter Soldier. He didn’t condemn his fake arm, because it was what it was, an arm.

That simple sentence uncoiled something within his chest.

It was easier to accept his body after that. Day by day, his body wasn’t just a vessel for his current frayed self. It was something that was his. The entirety of his body, including his scars – his hair, his nails, his eyes, his lips, his voice, his skin, all of it was his to use. He cut his hair one morning; dark brown hair fell down on the tile floor. He looked at his reflection in the mirror. He looked a bit like James Buchanan Barnes, but not entirely. There was something sharp in his eyes, something dark, something dangerous, something weary, something different, a different expression, a different story, a warped, wicked soul. He felt satisfied – not quite content, not quite happy – because everything reflected in that mirror was his, _him_.

He was finally grasping who he was, wearing himself down every night in a religious pilgrimage into the depths of his mind. He had an incredible fortitude. But even someone like him had his limits. He learned about it twelve months after leaving his last mission uncompleted.

He found himself in the same place (the river didn’t have debris anymore), after four days of being pursued and barely avoiding capture. It wasn’t because they were good. It was because he was tired, and that it wasn’t only one team from one organization that was in the chase. It seemed like they had agreed upon a time to pester him, even though he had broken their plans. And bones. Repeatedly.

It was the fact that, unfortunately, he was exhausted and his mind wasn’t as clear as before. It was the fact that he made a mistake.

He should have run to an unpopulated area. He should have left that woman behind – casualties were accountable – he should have killed them all without mercy. He should have tried to be more like the Winter Soldier and less like James Buchanan Barnes, but he couldn’t, because he wasn’t just one or the other. That was how he found himself on the ground in the middle of the street, mind hazy, body trembling from the aftershocks of being shot by a modified stun gun, with his eyes barely seeing the dark looming shadows of people who intended to use him like a weapon.

He humored the thought of being a puppet again for exactly seven seconds before silently choosing real death by any means necessary over not living like a human being. He thought he heard a familiar voice in the distance before being swallowed by darkness and cold silence.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t the noise – because there’s hardly any sound surrounding him –, it wasn’t any form of discomfort – he’s used to laying on hard surfaces, and a smooth floor is hardly the worst place he had laid – it was, strangely, a gentle pull of his consciousness, like many years ago when he was able to sleep more than four hours. He blinked, focusing on the white ceiling, his eyes moved to his left and saw a white wall, and then he turned to his right and saw a crystal glass wall. He propped himself up, taking in his surroundings. It looked like a room.

'Or a fancy cage', his mind supplied a bit after for him.

As soon as he stood, someone appeared in the corner where he couldn’t see properly, thanks to the position of the crystal wall.

“Good, you’re awake,” she said, despite obviously knowing it beforehand.

He didn’t say anything. He knew who she was. Natalia Alianovna “Natasha” Romanova, currently going by the name Natasha Romanoff, codenamed Black Widow, part of the Avengers, the group his ghost belonged to. He inspected the wall behind him.

She didn’t seem fazed by his indifference, “This wasn’t exactly how we hoped to treat you. This chamber was intended for… someone else. We apologize for the lack of furniture.” She didn’t explain why. But he could guess, the less he had on his hands the less dangerous he was. He punched the wall with all his might with his left arm. It barely dented.

He turned around and went to the glass wall, where the Black Widow was standing.

She tensed imperceptibly. “Steve wanted to talk to you but I convinced him to wait after I made sure you weren’t under the influence of the program.”

He felt her eyes on him. She was gauging his reaction – testing, categorizing. He barely looked in her direction before punching the glass in the same manner he did with the wall. It rattled, but not so much as a crack, or a dent, appeared in the surface. He used his flesh hand to feel it.

“Are you still trying to kill him?” She asked, standing in front of him challengingly.

He stared at her blankly, “No. If I wanted, or if I was under the influence of ‘the program’ as you put it,” he answered with disdain, “I’d killed him twenty eight times already.” He rarely used his voice, it sounded a bit scratchy, a bit rusty and a bit forceful, but it was his, _him_. In that instant he realized he liked his voice.

She barely blinked at his reply, “That’s good to hear.” 

He moved away from her, inspecting the cell and its space. It had a bathroom. A shower and a toilet. The white shiny surface told him welcomingly he was going to stay for a while.

“When are you going to release me?” He asked, glancing sideways at her.

Her eyes were clear, her gaze unyielding. “Once we provide you with help.”

“Help.” He echoed blankly. She nodded subtly and talked some more but he wasn’t listening – some dark part of his mind acknowledged her intellect and bravery but now – _now_ , she said _help_.

“What do you mean by help?” He asked tonelessly.

It seemed he asked something she was already explaining. She simply pressed on. “We will give you shelter and psychological aid by our best medical staff.” She was staring at him intently, “You will be given the best attention available.”

A sound escaped his mouth, like a bark ripped out from his throat – forcefully yanked out from his lungs, and shook his entire body. _Oh_ , he thought, he was laughing. He saw how she went rigid immediately, as if a wild animal had gotten out of its cage – he was still laughing madly. He remembered laughter, in big quantities when he was young, sparsely during the war, and none when he was an asset. It hurt. His insides, his face – his eyes were filled with unshed tears. His chest felt tight and the feelings assaulting his senses were mixed and almost unrecognizable. He gasped for breath, bent over with his hands on his knees.

“Alright,” he said, straightening up after a moment of silence as he got his bearings back. “By definition, help is offering one’s resources to someone in need. You—” he paused, “No, maybe not you, but the people you’re representing by facing me, think you can improve or fix what’s in here.” He pointed at his head with his finger, “You can’t. And if even if you could, I’d not want it. You, your team. Your government, or the tatters of your cursed organization. All of them, all you, I do not want you.”

He towered over her – as much as the glass separating them allowed it.

After a long moment of silence, while they stared at each other, he spoke, “I assume you were expecting this rejection. Now, tell me. What do you want?”

She was good at hiding emotions – he found himself not caring at all. A part of him was hissing, recognizing the burning anger that was sizzling up in his chest.

“We don’t want anything from you.” She said at length.

“Are you going to turn me into the authorities then?”

She paused. “No.”

“Tell me what you want!” He told her, his voice seeping cold venom. His fist slammed  against the glass wall, tiny cracks he couldn’t see appeared in it.

“Steve,” She conceded curtly, “Steve wants to help you. We are facilitating the environment, for his sake.”

“You could have started with that, and you would have saved us a lot of time.” Before she could say anything he added, “Tell him, his friend is dead. Been dead since he fell. A long time. Tell him, if I wanted his help I wouldn’t have avoided him in the first place.”

It was the truth. He didn’t want Captain America’s help. Or anyone’s for that matter. The man with the shield, his unfinished mission, wasn’t of his concern. And Steve Rogers, the blue eyed ghost, he was dangerous. A serious threat to him, because Steve Rogers held the key to his most volatile side.

She remained in silence, staring at him with a forced blankness, “You will have to tell him that yourself.”

He was left alone once again. He stood there, watching where she once stood – he didn’t know for how long he stayed like that, engrossed in the daydream of a dead moment.

Later that night when he was revising in his head a mission he hadn’t quite managed to remember completely, he was visited by the owner of his cage.

Tony Stark was munching on some snacks as he appeared in front of him. “Hey there, Cyborg. How you like your stay so far? Would you give us five stars in a Yelp review? I think we could use the feedback. You actually dented the wall and damaged the glass, not that you'd know it's there, and this was designed by yours truly, created to contain psychotic demi-gods in one of their mindless rampages. And there are more mindless rampages than I’d like to admit. I bet it’d do better if we added some ambient music. Jarvis put some boring—I mean classic music from his time and see if he likes it. Oh! _That_ song; Auf Wiedersehen, Sweetheart. Kind of fitting, isn’t it? What was the name of the singer again?”

He stared at Stark blankly.

“I believe her name is Vera Lynn, Sir.” A smooth voice came from nowhere, which actually prompted a reaction from the ex-soldier. He stared at the ceiling in wonder and suspicion.

“From your time right?” Anthony Edward “Tony” Stark, son of the deceased Howard and Maria Stark, asked. The couple was murdered by HYDRA’s orders. Publicly known as an unfortunate car accident.

“He’s looking at me differently, Jarvis. Why is he looking at me like that? Do I have something in my face?” Stark frowned, wide-eyed and seemingly confused.

He shook his head. He couldn’t afford losing focus while being in the same proximity as potential hostiles.

“I believe Sgt. Barnes was deep in thought. He wasn’t necessarily looking at you, Sir.” The voice from the ceiling said.

“Well, can you blame me for thinking that? He isn’t a very talkative individual. I came to confirm what Nat said, even though Capsicle wasn’t here to witness the crinkles of her brow as she described—”

“Do you want to kill me?” He asked, startling Stark out of his monologue.

“Is there a reason why you think I’d attempt doing that?” His eyes narrowed, and his body became taut.

“I didn’t kill them, if that’s what you’re assuming. I knew one of the heads who planned it though.” He cocked his head a bit, eyeing Stark. “I killed him when I was out of cryo a couple of years back. I believe there are other two members who got away and are still alive somewhere.” He was a tool used to eliminate threats to HYDRA personally, swiftly and with weapons. Stark’s parents’ death was a planned accident that didn’t require him in any way whatsoever.

Stark’s expression was extremely complex. There was relief and doubt in the wrinkles of his brow; there was gratitude and anger pooled in his eyes, and fleeting flickers of sadness and joy in the corner of his lips.

“I thought you didn’t remember anything.” Stark managed to say.

“I didn’t. I had a year to dig them out.” He shrugged a bit.

“So you worked with the ones who—”

He interrupted Stark again. “No, I didn’t. And I didn’t know what they did until I read it on the files. I killed him before because I had to at the time.”

Stark smiled wryly, “Oh my, isn’t that a happy strike of luck?”

He gave a twisted smile of his own, “I’m done fighting fights that aren’t mine.”

Stark blinked, “That doesn’t sound very Bucky-ish. You know, from what little Cap has talked about you.”

“Given the fact that I’m not him, you would expect it.” He said dryly.

“The sass is strong with this one.” From the look in Stark’s eyes he expected a reaction to that comment but when he didn’t say anything back, Stark asked, “Who are you then, Terminator?”

“I haven’t decided on anything yet, Stark.” He stood, taking off his clothes – the ones he’s been wearing longer than he’d like to.

“Whoa, whoa! Hold your horses there! What are you doing?” Stark seemed scandalized for some reason. He frowned, Stark didn’t seem the type to get bashful over anything. But the unmistakable stare directed at his arm didn’t go unnoticed.

“I’m undressing.” He said, unbuckling his pants and pulling them down. He really didn't give a damn about nudity. It was irrelevant, it wasn't as if he had any privacy to begin with.

“I can clearly see that! Can’t you wait for—what the hell happened to your back?” Stark’s voice went low for a moment.

“Bullets reach their targets sometimes."

Stark muttered a string of curses.

“Or maybe you’re talking about my spine?” he reached behind his back with his flesh hand, feeling the roughness of the skin there, “Most of my bones were broken by the time they found me. My body was mending itself slowly, but the damage was too big—especially for my internal organs. I should’ve died that day, but I didn’t. They saved me. But since I couldn’t regrow an arm they gave me this,” the plates whirled as he flexed his arm, “They fused most of my bones with the same titanium alloy my arm is made of. The scars of my spine are the number of times they cut me open, I think.”

He blinked, he turned and glanced at Stark; he looked pale and sick behind the glass, but there was also a fire burning in his eyes, the same righteous fire that Steve—

He shook his head sharply. That line of thought was deadly. Too risky. He stepped inside the shower and it magically started pouring water down.

He heard Stark muttering something about needing several shots of alcohol.

He paid him no mind and remained under the soothing spray. His mind wandered to today’s events. He was kidnapped and ‘rescued’ by The Avengers. He is being held captive for an indefinite amount of time. He had laughed for the first time in years (and it wasn’t even about something funny). Black Widow was certainly not on his side and cooperation wasn’t an option for either of them. Iron Man learned about the fate of one of his family’s murderers. And he talked about the birth of The Winter Soldier.

Under the spray, with some kind of soapy water leathering his pale skin, he recalled that time – what he could remember of it. He hadn’t been afraid of them – the doctors, the generals and soldiers, the mad scientist. No, they weren’t frightening. The pain that came along with them was, however, something else.

Pain meant something for him, but not them. They meant nothing. That’s why the first time he woke up he almost killed them. He felt wounded and vulnerable. When his mind wasn’t completely blank, he fought. He hurt them. He killed them over and over in different times. It was an innate response. He fought for survival, safety, and for himself. One of the reasons why he was deadly and unpredictable.

But the last time he lashed at them – at the doctor repairing his arm – wasn’t because he was aware of himself, or the situation. It was because his blue eyed ghost – the man on the bridge – stirred something inside his head. Something different than basic survival instinct. It was the remaining vestige of the dead man’s will inside his head.

“But I knew him.” It was said softly and desperately – like a scared lost child.

In the end, another wipe left him pliable for the mission.

He endured things no human being should endure. He faced one of the worst parts of the human soul. He fought and won. And now, he’s here, alive.

A shuddering breath escaped his lips, his whole body trembled under the warm spray of water. By the time he stepped out, his clothes were gone and were replaced by a clean white shirt and flannel pants. He took one minute to make sense of the occurrence. He didn’t hear anyone opening any door and he was damn sure he hadn’t left his guard down enough to miss something like this.

He sighed, there was no point to think about it. He grabbed the fluffiest towel he had ever touched in his life, and dried himself. He changed and sat on the floor. He felt oddly relaxed. He shouldn’t really. But there he was – safe as he could get and he couldn’t deny it felt nice.

 

* * *

 

Second chances don't come cheap. It was a reality that he knew all too well. He was done wallowing though. He didn’t seek redemption – there was no way to forgive the wrongdoings he did. Ultimately, it didn’t matter if he was used and he wasn’t really the one to decide the death of many. The deed was done. He didn’t seek forgiveness. Really, he didn’t.

He didn’t think he would get it from the people that would matter – those are dead. What he needed was closure. A sense of reconciliation with himself, with the things he did. His memories were the only way – in a way – to get it. It was another way to conquer the myriad of problems that plagued his life. He needed acceptance. It was hard. It was difficult. But it was something he wanted to do. In order to achieve it, he continued with his task – he was extremely good at summoning them but terrible at handling the flow. It felt like he was adjusting the gates of a dam with a cracked wooden handle.

He had a set of basic triggers in his mind. Pictures he had seen while he was in the outside world, from the web, from places he visited, faces, skin tones, eyes, flags, landscapes, buildings, and more. It was somewhat ironic that the things he saw now were neatly stored in his head and available whenever he wanted, unlike before. Once he started constructing an image in his head – big round eyes, dark skin colour, long black hair tousled in a ponytail, plump lips, an apartment building, snow, parking lot, stale odors – all of it made something that sharpened the definition and the story behind it.

She was a reporter whose next article could have uncovered some sensitives topics from one of HYDRA’s head executives.

He didn’t know for how long he stayed in that same position bringing back past memories to the present. But when he came to himself there was a plate with food and a glass of water waiting for him in the middle of the room. He blinked and stretched. He was tired, and hungry. He could have gone another day without food, but that wasn’t a very sensible decision if he had the means to avoid it. His metabolism needed a regular intake of calories. Otherwise, not only his health would be compromised, but also his life.

If he had to put it in simple words – he was _delicate_. Not in the sense of easily breakable glass, but in the way that a cell phone was rendered useless without charge. In other words, his body, just like his mind was high maintenance. He ate in silence, slowly and without a thought. He found himself sometimes like this, eating mechanically as if a switch in his head had been flipped. It seemed that his body turned on autopilot – as if he was the passenger of a ship and not the captain.

The food was already gone from the plate as he came back to himself. He mourned the loss of the moment to savor what he knew was good food. After a while, he began to exercise. Despite the downside of wasting energy, he couldn’t risk being out of shape. Additionally, it was one of his routines, and he wasn’t about to truncate it just because he was trapped. Just like before, clothes appeared magically after his shower. He changed and inspected the room once more. There was a barely noticeable line that formed a rectangle in the ceiling, probably a door where the things he was using came from. It was too small for him to fit, so it was immediately discarded as a possible way to escape.

He stared at the ceiling for a long while; he became lost in the white surface; it made him think in white lab coats, it reminded him of needles and the smell of chemicals; it made him remember faces and lies; most of the time they told him a story, in which he was the cause of some major change in the world, they gave him meaning when he was weak – after a wipe – to keep him grounded to the fantasy they knew he needed to hear. Despite what they did to him over and over, they couldn’t completely deny a part of his own humanity that couldn’t be forgotten.

Someone was watching him, he was aware of it, a few moments before someone had entered the room and stood watching him while he watched the ceiling. He had an inkling who it was and he wasn’t about to make the first move to break the silence. He could go on without talking for a long time; it was a fact.

The newcomer cleared his throat, “Hey.”

That single sound alone stirred memories in his head, most being happy and thus turning bitter as he remembered where he was. He turned his head around, his gaze landing on a set of worried blue eyes. He didn’t greet back, he just swept over his gaze over Steve Rogers’ face. Tiny wrinkles between his eyebrows and his lips  forming a thin line were evidence of his obvious displeasure and worry.

“Are you feeling okay?”

It was such a strange thing to ask, he thought, as he kept staring at Steve Rogers with flashes of situations and past memories he couldn’t control. It was overwhelming and grim, one in particular memory stuck in that moment – they both were sitting side by side in front of a campfire, snowflakes were falling slowly from the sky and Steve got closer, just an inch, pressing closer to his side, he knew he did it to keep him warm, because Steve cared and worried. Because Steve worried for Bucky, who was still alive despite everything.

“Bucky?”

He snapped out of his trance, a flicker of irritation sparking in his chest.

“That’s not my name.” He spoke, voice cold.

Steve was quiet for a moment, “It is.” he said slowly. “It’s your name.”

The name slid unpleasantly over his skin. “No. It’s not.”

Steve clenched his jaw. “Why isn’t your name?”

“Because I’m not him.”

Steve was devastated by those words, he saw that fact reflect in his blue eyes, but it didn’t last long; he squared his shoulders, jutting out his chin a bit, and said determinedly, “Yes, you are. You’re Bucky Barnes, you’re James Buchanan Barnes.”

He stared at Steve for a long moment, “I don’t remember,” he said, and it was a lie, of course he did remember. “Are you stubborn or just plain stupid?”

“I’m persistent.” Steve answered, all the defiance and righteousness he could muster injected into that statement. Steve wouldn’t back down from this, he knew it because more memories were flashing inside his mind.

His head began to throb uncomfortably. “You aren't different from HYDRA or the bastards that are after me.” he muttered darkly.

Steve looked as if he had been shot. “You are wrong, I just want the best for you!”

“So you lock me up in a cage.” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

“No!” Steve said vehemently.

He stared at Steve, “What is _this_ then?”

Steve said through gritted his teeth, “A necessary measure.”

He remained quiet at that, his heart beating a mile a minute, his head seemed to be splitting in two. He realized then, hearing but not really listening to Steve’s voice and reasons, this blue eyed ghost was the cause of all his problems. That simple conclusion, strangely, terrified him. He knew, it was one of the clearest things he had present in his mind, it wasn’t Steve’s fault; the war, him falling, HYDRA, even this cage.

But, now, _now_ he _knows_ , Steve isn’t innocent either. Bucky Barnes would not have ever blamed Steve of something. But he isn’t just Bucky Barnes. The conversation he had unconsciously been avoiding for months had finally polarized his thoughts. And that thought, now, _now_ in this moment, was terrifying. The room spun around and his vision blurred.

He stumbled towards one of the walls bracing his hands on the surface – a panic attack wasn’t foreign, or the lack of air, or the sense of vertigo, or the feeling of not being in control. He tuned everything out, his thoughts, the panicky sound of Steve’s voice in the background, only concentrating on his erratic breathing and pounding heart. He muttered in Russian, hollow words that were meant to become a lullaby to stir his breathing back to normal. He should hate the language, but he couldn’t. Instead, it felt reassuring and familiar and the only thing solid that couldn’t be wrenched from his hands; it was the only thing that helped him get through this kind of situation.  

“Are you okay?” Steve asked frantically.

His lips twitched in a grimace, “Иди на хуй,” he said tiredly, sliding down the wall until he was laying flat on the floor. After a while, he saw Steve standing impossibly close to the glass wall, surely where the door was located. Soon he noticed Steve wasn’t alone on the other side of the wall.

“What was that trick? Were you tricking yourself into not panicking? Why Russian? Did you come up with it or… _fudge_. You know what, you don’t need to answer that. Jarvis give me Cyborg’s vitals. You really gave us a scare there, we thought you were gonna flip out and start frothing at the mouth while seeking for our lives like a mindless franken-bloodhound.” A holographic panel appeared in the air, and Stark tinkered with it.

He didn’t look at Steve, he was too drained to try to deal with worried eyes and the embodiment of everything that could destroy him.

“Bucky.” Steve called softly a bit after.

He fisted his metal arm, the plates whirring, signaling the power he was putting behind that motion. “Not my name.”

Steve stayed quiet for exactly five seconds. “Yes it is, Bucky, it is your name.”

He whipped his head towards Steve, glaring hotly. Never in his past life felt the need to inflict pain on Steve – on the contrary, his sole purpose was to protect him from it, another example that he wasn’t just that dead man. At least, a tiny part of him consoled itself by thinking he had reason to want to feel Steve’s jaw colliding with his fists. After all, being locked up, being imprisoned, being possibly another lab rat again, being stripped down from any choice as if he was a tool again, and being denied by Steve could count as a good reason to want to sock him one.

Stark stepped as much as he could in their sight, “Guys—gentlemen, nonagenarian, super soldiers— _whatever_. Please, let’s compromise, Cyborg here doesn’t want to be called that, so, what if he chooses a new name?”

“He has a name.” Steve said stubbornly.

“I’m aware,” Stark said as patiently as he could, which wasn’t much, “ _but_ he doesn’t want it—” at Steve’s face, Tony hurried to add, “ _for now_ —he may change his mind, Cap, think of it as a temporary measure for you two to communicate. And me of all people talking about communication is a testimony of how much we need it. Suggestions? Requests? Maybe Cyborg here already has something in mind? Mmhm?”

“Buchanan.”

“ _32557_ —”

“Barnes!”

“Prisoner!”

“Zev!” Stark shouted at the room, and when he felt the silence stretch, “What? It means _wolf_ , cool isn't it? The less letters the better, amiright?.  Can we compromise this neutral name in the name of peace? And mostly for my—I mean—the collective well being of the willing or unwilling residents of this tower?”

“Подумаешь.”

“We are gonna take that as a yes.” Stark clapped, and turned to Steve, significantly punctuating each word. “We are taking that as a yes.”

Steve didn’t look happy in the slightest and _James_ – because like hell he was gonna let anyone give him a name as if he was a pet – enjoyed it.

Steve sighed. “Look,  Dr. Gill will see you as soon as you accept the treatment.”

James scoffed dauntingly. “Good luck with that.”

Steve wasn’t above from voicing his frustration by stomping his feet as he walked away, apparently.

Stark was still standing there. “Well, that could have gone a lot better.”

“Or it could have gone a lot worse,” James commented and then added as an afterthought, “Call me James.”

Stark’s face was priceless. First there was surprise, some sort of joy, a bit of confusion and then realization and mock offense. “My naming skills are perfect, you just lost your chance buddy, Zev is a fantastic name so you know!”

“Sure is, Stark.” James said and because he still felt vindicated – and he kind of wanted to say thank you – he gave Stark a smile instead, the one he knew people loved for some reason.

Stark gaped like a fish for a few seconds, then he regained his composure clearing his throat. “Just Tony is fine.”

“Alright.” James said easily, laying back down on the floor. He felt tired, a bit shaken, but that wasn’t anything new.

Tony stayed for a few minutes more, talking about inane topics, sitting on the floor before the glass gesticulating wildly about the smallest things. A little later when Tony was already gone, James realized that what Tony did was distract him from drowning in his thoughts.

 

* * *

 

After that, Steve tried, repeatedly, to convince James to see the doctors, James retaliated by ignoring him with the best of his capabilities; a thing that was both easy and hard to do. It was easy to tune out the reasons and the meaning of the words that came from Steve’s mouth but the sound, the familiarity of the intonation – the memories that it carried – were hard to ignore. Even more so when those memories weren’t as terrible as James feared they could turn into.

It seemed that the dance was going to go on forever, two stubborn people not giving up an inch. James wasn’t sure how things could have turned out if it weren’t for Tony. One day without previous notice, a part of the glass was removed. Tony sauntered in as if it was the most normal thing to do and began to talk to James who was just finishing his exercise routine.

Sure, Tony since that day had been coming regularly to yap about this and that – but this was just—

“You’re crazy,” James interrupted whatever Tony was babbling about.

“You have to be more imaginative, I’ve been called worse names before.” Tony grinned cheekily.

“You’re a danger to your own well being.” James was, honest to God, baffled.

“Wanna see my suits?” Tony asked, and at James’ silence he added, “They are awesome. Just as cool as your arm. Well, FYI, Jarvis thinks that my suits are cooler than your arm, sorry, not sorry.” He said while Jarvis protested in the background.

James said in disbelief, “You’re a menace to your own self. How is that you’re still _alive_?”

“I have the luck of the devil on my side, not to mention I’m devilishly handsome too.” Tony declared unrepentant.

James smothered a laugh by snorting.

Tony seemed pleased with himself and after a moment he asked in a different tone, “How are you feeling?”

James understood what Tony was asking about; he sobered up and tried to conjure an answer, but he couldn’t, “I don’t know.”

“That’s okay,” Tony said immediately, accepting, kind and gentle all at once.

“It’s okay?” James was thrown off by the answer.

“Sure. You’re allowed to _not_ know. Hell, I don’t know exactly how I’m feeling half of the time. Though, granted, maybe the lack of sleep and the excess of caffeine has something to do with it, but who the fuck cares.”

James had to laugh at that.

Tony seemed smug, he turned around, “Come on, shower and change. You’re gonna see my suits and you’re gonna love it.”

He didn’t wait for James’ answer. The “door” was still open. James did not wait for his brain to catch up with the implication that action of trust meant. He did as Tony instructed, he showered and changed into – the clothes came down from a hatch as he previously suspected – a blue plaid flannel, a pair of brown corduroys and a pair of working boots.

The first step he took as he went through the opening of the glass felt surreal. Tony was at a table a few feet away tapping away on his phone. James didn’t call his name, he just looked around taking in the sight from the other side of the glass. He walked up to the window that divided the tower and the outside world. He stared down and watched the busy city of New York with its people running about living their lives.

“Good, you’ve changed.” Tony said aloud, shamelessly scanning how James looked, nodding to himself as if he did a good job.

James blinked, “You’re the one who has been choosing my clothes, aren’t you?”

“We are going a couple of floors down, and then we are gonna have an amazing brunch because another thing I’m the best—nay, The Master—of, is at ordering take out.”

The deflection was the only answer James needed; he wordlessly followed Tony to the elevator.

James didn’t know how to feel about the fact that Tony was picking out clothes for him. Sure, most of his life he had actively chosen clothes either for practicality and durability – and another chunk of his life he hadn’t had a say in the things he wore – but this was different. The clothes he had been wearing weren’t just shirts and pants thrown in carelessly to give him something to wear. This felt as if Tony had been thinking of him while picking the clothes.

The ride down was silent, Tony wasn’t talking for once while he tapped on his phone, James crossed his arms and looked down. “If your suits are as half as impressive as Jarvis… Then, consider myself willing to accept the ‘awesomeness’.”

Tony stopped mid-type, his head turning around. “Prepare yourself, your mind is about to be blown away.” He sounded delighted and surprised, and James couldn’t dare look at the expression on his face.

James was certainly surprised and captivated by the collection of suits, and the eagerness in which Tony explained details about them only intensified the experience. Tony could have gone on like that forever if weren’t for Jarvis reminding him of food. They went back inside the elevator and went down another couple of floors.

The floor they stopped in looked like an apartment, Tony went immediately towards the kitchen area, he waved his hand around and told James to look around. He did. It was spacious and everything in it looked new. Much like the floors above in the tower, the city could be seen with windows upon windows where surely businessmen worked all day. James wondered how could they be still working near the Avenger’s Tower if it was a proclive place for disaster.

A bit later while he was investigating the bedrooms, Tony called his name.

“Feast your eyes—and soon your tastebuds—on this fancy Shrimp and Egg Casserole! You’re gonna love it, I know it.”

“You sure think you know a lot.” James commented with a half smile as he sat on a stool across the counter in the kitchen.

“Well, duh, because I’m older and wiser.”

“How old are you?”

“Not the point.” Tony dodged the question. “Focus Cyborg, me wiser and older—but most important _wiser_. Now, repeat: I recognize Tony is unbelievably awesome.”

James lifted both of his brows and stared at Tony with incredulity. “I hope you realize how silly that sounds.”

Tony served the food while sighing dramatically, “The youth of today can’t appreciate the gifts and free knowledge that are given.”

“I wasn’t even born in this century.” James pointed out as he began to eat.

They stayed in companionable silence.

“How old are you?” Tony frowned.

“Not sure.” James shrugged.

“You’re around Steve’s age right?”

James made noncommittal sound in the back of his throat.

“God, stop making me feel old.”

“Does it really bother you?”

“Not really, I’m just humoring myself by making you uncomfortable.”

“You’re one of those people who love everything about themselves, aren’t you?”

“Nobody is perfect.” Tony said, and when James acquiesced with a nod, “I’m a close example though.” James rolled his eyes.

After a short pause, Tony said gently, “He’s not perfect either.”

James knew who Tony was talking about, he took his time to answer. “I know.”

“Do you really?”

James wanted to say yes but he couldn’t utter the word, because he wasn’t sure he believed it himself.

“Look, I’m the last person who should be giving advice regarding healthy and communicative relationships. But you two need to talk, and I mean speak to each other and listen. Not fighting or antagonizing each other, no matter how fun is. Just a plain boring conversation about—you know, _feelings_.”

James pushed a shrimp up and down on his plate.

“You might not see how this is affecting him, but it has, it does. I know I can’t really understand how you two are feeling, but one of you has to take the first step on bequeathing some ground. And of the two, you’re the one more well behaved. Believe me, I haven’t seen Steve this...unsettled, like, ever.”

James frowned, “Unsettled? Steve?”

Tony nodded and commented on something else, but James was lost in his own thoughts by then. It all started, by the way Steve was a danger to James because Steve affected him more than any other memory, more than any other person – Steve, years after years, was one of the core pillars of James’ life. It was a revelation to think that James had a similar, if not the same, power over Steve. He never considered it from that perspective, of how much this meant to him.

It was pretty obvious – if he added Steve’s feelings in the equation he made in his head. Maybe Steve was just as desperate to establish something solid after so long with him. It was undeniable, James realized, even if he wasn’t entirely Bucky, Steve still meant something to him – there was no way someone wouldn’t mean anything if that someone had such an effect on another. But what was that exactly? What did Steve mean to James? It was still too early to tell.

James found himself standing in front of the window that had the view of the streets below. He scanned the room and found Tony sprawled on the couch. He couldn’t have been in his reverie for that long. And yet, Tony was sleeping in the middle of the day. James turned back to the window, just watching, feeling strangely at peace.

It was then when he sensed someone stepping into the room.

“I’m not going to do anything to him, neither will I attempt to escape.” He said as a way of greeting.

“Why?” Natasha asked.

Because he liked Tony and he felt he owed him a little bit of respect and trust, and he wasn’t going to betray that or take advantage of it. He might have been a criminal but he still had morals, damn it. Not that he was going to voice that aloud, though.

“You surpassed my expectations,” She continued to say a bit after.

“Do you really think I care what you think?” That, he couldn’t stop from saying aloud.

“No,” he turned around as she said that, “but you should. I am the voice of this tower.”

“I thought Jarvis was the voice of this tower,” he quipped.

He thought vaguely that Tony was being a bad influence on him.

“I don’t trust you.”

“Thank God, I was getting worried you were starting to like me.”

Tony was definitely a bad influence.

“I don’t trust you,” she repeated, brows furrowing delicately, “but he does.” She motioned at the sleeping scientist. “It has to count for something, so you better do something about it.”

There was something underlying her words, she wasn’t just talking about Tony. James understood, he held her gaze and nodded. It may had been a trick of his mind, but she seemed minutely more relaxed than a minute ago.

“You must have your hands full with everything that goes on in this place.”

“What makes you think that?”

“It’s just a feeling.”

“Well, you’re not wrong.”

“I believe you are more than capable of handling it though.”

“You’re right about that,” she said with a tiny twist of her mouth, like the ghost of a smile.

Tony mumbled something in his sleep, James turned to the sound, and by the next second Natasha was gone.

“Yes, more than capable,” he mumbled, “scarily so.”

 

* * *

 

There was a feeling he wasn’t quite sure he should allow himself to feel – there were pieces of moments, fleeting and short, when he was happy in his past – he missed those times. James wasn’t sure he should feel melancholic, there was no point, right? His past couldn’t be changed and the future was unknown, he only had the present to live in. He wanted to live, James knew he would never be able to have a normal life by any standards. But any living creature had the right to live, right?

His options were limited, and most of them had terrible paths to cross. So accepting Steve’s help should be the obvious choice. It should be simple, but it wasn’t. James told him that he wasn’t any different than HYDRA, and in a sense, he might be correct. Steve didn’t take his wishes into account, he hadn’t considered James’ side of the story, and as Tony pointed out, they didn’t talk at all.

James guessed that due the circumstances, it couldn’t be helped – almost getting caught by criminals, his history as one of the deadliest assassins in the century, the brainwashing and the programming, and given the fact that he outright denied being who he was impacted directly at the precarious situation he was in.

He wished he had more time to mentally prepare himself to confront Steve, but as usual, nothing goes as planned. James wasn’t in the living room when Steve barged in, Tony was. James splashed some water on his face when he heard Steve’s angry voice saying, _what the hell were you thinking?_

While he took a deep breath and dried off with a fluffy towel, Tony’s voice said in a somewhat irritated tone, _Glad you’re back from your mission. How did it go? Good? Awesome. Me? I’m fucking fantastic thanks for asking!_

James walked quietly towards the living room, feeling more than a little apprehensive.

“You’ve got no right to do what you did.” Steve’s voice became clearer as he made his way.

Tony scoffed, “Well, pal, sorry to break it down to you, but that makes two of us. What’s that, the pot calling the kettle black?”

James spoke before Steve could reply Tony, “Alright, could you calm down? You don’t have to get mad at him for treating me like a person. If anything you should berate him for not having any sense of self-preservation.”

“Hey!” Tony exclaimed offended.

“It’s the truth.” James stared at Steve who seemed rooted to the doorway. “I’m dangerous.” Tony muttered something under his breath, and then stood from his seat, walking towards James. He stopped in front of James, and without preamble took his metal arm, lifting up the hand until it was at his neck level. The gall Tony had paralyzed James where he was standing. 

“You’ve got a chance to kill me. You had had many opportunities to hurt me and to run away, are you going to?”

“No,” James said, almost feeling hurt.

“You aren’t dangerous.” Tony let go of his arm.

“Now that I made my point clear, you two need to talk,” Tony said while walking pass Steve. “And you better do it right or I swear to Jarvis I’m gonna—I’m gonna do something!”

The elevator doors closed.

James decided to walk towards the kitchen – no matter where he was standing, there was no way Steve was going to relax anytime soon. He served two glasses of water, sat on a stool and waited. The sun was setting, the panels on many of the buildings reflected the light. Steve sat across him at the counter; he grabbed the glass of water.

The silence wasn’t companionable, but it wasn’t awkward either.

“We need to talk.” James finally spoke.

“Okay.” Steve straightened in his seat.

“I don’t want to see any of the doctors you might want to throw at me.”

“Bucky—”

“It’s James.”

“Okay, listen to me. You went through a really hard time. I’m not asking you to see someone because I think something is wrong with you, I want you to go to a doctor because they can help you.”

“I don’t want their help. I’ve been just fine on my own. And there are plenty of things wrong with me.”

“You’re not listening, Bucky.”

“No, you are the one not listening here. I’ve been fine. I’m not telling you I’m perfectly okay, I’m not. I don’t think I ever will. Me going to your doctors isn’t going to change anything and I’d rather not talk to strangers that are surely government agents of some sort—and you simply can’t say otherwise because you know it’s true.”

Steve pressed his lips together shaking his head. “Even if they are government workers, you can trust them.”

“I won’t.”

“I’m giving you my word it’s going to be okay.”

James almost sneered. “Really? Are you really thinking I’ll ever be willing to have anything to do with these kind of organizations? Your naivete hasn’t changed at all.”

“Apparently, your accursed stubbornness hasn’t either.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It isn’t.”

“Too bad.”

They were at an impasse; they both knew it.

“Are you going to force me to go?” James asked plainly, hiding the fear from his voice as best as he could. It wasn’t the doctors, it was the fact that Steve could act like HYDRA that frightened him.

Steve ran his hand through his hair, he was still in his uniform and he looked tired and worn out. James felt a little bad for putting Steve through this.

“I wish you could see it from my perspective, you are asking me to wait and hope for the best without doing anything, you’re asking me not to help you and, I can help you—trust me, if you just let your guard down, give them the benefit of the doubt, we could make it better, we could work our way through this, Bucky just—”

Something in his face must have been terrifying enough to make Steve stop mid sentence. Was it sorrow that reflected in his features? Betrayal? Bewilderment? A combination of the three concocted in an endless stream of suffering? How could Steve ask that of him? How could he ask him to stop living? Because asking to trust them, to let his guard down, to _fall apart_ and hope for the better is asking him to die. Not trusting and keeping his guard up was the only way he had been living, it was the only way he had been able to survive to see another day in this cruel imperfect world.

How could Steve, _Steve_ , ask that? Couldn’t he see it? Couldn’t Steve see he was asking this broken man to fall apart at the seams, to be blown away by the wind and be forgotten?

With a detached sort of calmness, James accepted that Steve would never acknowledge the remainings of the man he once called his best friend – that now forms part of a new person – because so far, Steve hadn’t believed in his existence at all, and now he felt Steve never would.

If Steve didn’t know before, he knew now.

But James wasn’t satisfied with just that, he was angry and hurt, this man — the only sunshine of his memories, one of the greatest happiness of his past life, the only joy in the bleakest of times – held power over him and he didn’t show any consideration.

Maybe it was just the hurt talking, maybe it was what James really thought, either way he couldn’t stop the words – and he didn’t want to.

“You murdered Bucky.” His voice was like cold steel. “You went to war because you wanted to. He didn’t. He was drafted. He was _drafted_. And you made him stay, in that bloodstained grime, you asked him to follow you through the rain of bullets. He did. Did you ever stop to think the reason why would he stay despite of what happened to him? Or maybe you knew, yes you knew, he loved you so much, so _goddamn much_ , that he was willing to throw away his life. You took advantage of it and you helped them finish him off because he was already half dead. You cared about the war. He didn’t care about the war, he cared about you. Only you. Always you.” After a moment of silence, he said, “I don’t.”

The raw pain reflected in Steve’s face was a punishment for the both of them.

James saw that same look in times when Steve happened to get truly sick when he was little, but this was worse because this sickness couldn’t be healed by the serum.

Steve found his voice after a couple of tries. “I’m sorry. I’m—I’m sorry.” James didn’t say anything to that, after a moment Steve turned around and left.

Somewhere deep inside, James knew both felt the same: numb, miserable and tormented.

 

* * *

 

It was late, exactly midnight, by the time Tony appeared. He made his way towards James. A soft song played in the background, James hadn’t asked for music, maybe it was Jarvis, or maybe it was Tony’s idea, but he didn’t stop to think about it. The sky was as starless as usual, James recalled a time, back in trenches where the stars seemed almost endless, it was a fitting contrast to the place he was currently living in, he supposed.

“Are you hungry?” Tony asked, looking outside the window with James.

“I want to leave,” James told him calmly.

Tony sighed, “I knew you were gonna say that.”

“Are going to stop me?”

“I’d rather go with you, to be honest. Don’t misunderstand, I’m not trying to be your leash or anything like that, but I’d be lying if I were to say that I’m gonna be totally okay with you leaving like this.” Tony put his hand inside his pockets.

“Okay,” James said at length. “But you do know that if you go with me you’re going to get in trouble.”

Tony snorted. “It wouldn’t be the first time, come on let’s take the R8.”

Just like his suits, Tony’s cars were displayed in some sort of shrine. James didn’t voice that thought aloud, they really didn’t talk while Tony drove them through the streets. In the traffic, the night sky looked even bleaker.

“Stop that.” Tony said.

“Stop what?” James was still looking outside the car window.

“Stop thinking depressing thoughts, I can feel them pouring all over the dashboard and that shit is hard to clean, believe me I know.”

“I doubt I’ll be able to stop them.”

“I can help you with that, I’ve got something even better than Windex in my repertoire.”

James turned to Tony with a twist of his lips. “People can’t save other people...”

“...people can only save themselves,” Tony followed up a bit after while looking at the road ahead.

James half smiled, remaining quiet. He wished Steve could understand it.

The streetlights passed in a blur, like a signifier of time, so it was a surprise when they parked. James looked around; he recognized the place. Coney Island was there, the same as always, and just as different. Tony gunned the engine. With a frown, he turned to James.

“Monsters can save people though.”

“I guess.” James replied with a frown, a bit unsure what Tony was getting at.

“So, what would you think of a monster saving another monster? Would that be possible?”

“That’s…” James paused, “That’s a good question.”

They got out of the car, and walked to one of the empty piers.

The salty breeze brushed their faces.

“I’m not _me—_ the current me—when I see him.” James stood beside Tony, looking at the dark, almost black ocean. “It feels like I’m drowning, the air rushes out of my lungs, and it’s horrible and wonderful at the same time—because he’s Steve. It's him. And I don’t know what to do. I wish it was the only thing I feel when I see him, but he also reminds me of really bad things—it’s funny how tainted his image has become in my head.”

“That isn’t funny at all.”

“No, no it isn’t.”

The riptide crashed against the shore.

“Chin up, he hasn’t tried to use drugs… yet.”

James gave him a wry smile and laugh, “That’s horrible.”

“You laughed—sorta, probably.” Tony shrugged. “So, it’s fine.”

A red dot appeared in the darkness. In the next second, James was pulling Tony down to the ground.

Three more red dots appeared.

The pier was shredded as the bullets pierced into it, James and Tony fell into the water below, it was freezing but James didn’t stop to think about it.

“We need to get to the shore.” He swam, pulling Tony along. They didn’t have guns, the only cover they had were the pillars under the pier; they had a minute to get out of the water. Luckily, they weren’t far away from the beach.

“Thank God this shit is waterproof.” Tony said, somehow managing to swim while using his Starkphone. “Suits ETA three minutes, Quinjet five. Keep us alive till then and you’ll get a cookie.” James didn’t answer, he just hauled Tony out of the water, taking him to the relative security that the pillars could provide. It was dark, and even though the sound of the ocean’s waves were a distraction, James knew where their plan of action would take place. Because he knew what he would do in that situation, and because he knew they were HYDRA.

Maybe he was getting rusty, for not having noticed beforehand that they were being tailed. Maybe he was more than a weapon, because _humans_ made mistakes. Maybe Bucky wasn’t as dead as he thought, he briefly – he didn’t have the luxury of thinking too deeply into it – wanted to see Steve again. It was a cruel revelation, and maybe it was selfish of him to think of his wishes when they were facing danger, but the thought of not seeing Steve again scared him more than death.

One minute after – he had to pull Tony along as they ran – the noise of gunfire mixed with the crashing waves like an echo of a past memory. A bullet almost grazed his head and another one bounced off his metal arm. They were closing in, and the distance between the end of the pillars and the open beach was shrinking as well.

James stopped, and yanked Tony behind a pillar. “Stay here.”

“No,” Tony replied immediately, talking fast and almost without pause. “Don’t try to insult my intelligence. I know they are after you and that they are trying to kill me, but like hell I’m letting you get caught just because I bruise easily!”

James gritted his teeth; they didn’t have time for this.

Humans made mistakes – James shouldn’t have asked for Tony’s permission. He should have forced him to stay somehow. None of this would have happened if he had just thrown Tony in the water and faced them alone. He could have done dozen of things differently today – refuse talking to Steve, Tony, even Natasha – but the past was the past and it couldn’t be changed. There weren’t only four HYDRA’s operatives after them, there were five. The last one hung back, waiting for James and Tony to make their way back.

The laser scope pointed a red dot at Tony’s head.

The bullet meant for him drilled itself deep inside one of the pillars.

James knew there was nothing else to do, other than to be a human shield for Tony.

So he did.

It was hard to describe how it felt to be shot, because it felt different each time depending on the type of bullet, at least it did for James. Most felt like burning metal making its way through flesh, some felt like a nasty bite of some animal or simply numbness, others were so devastating that they almost always rendered someone useless from the shock. This time, instead of feeling that, sadly, familiar scorching sensation, an icy cold feeling seeped into his body.

Idly, he compared the sensation to the feeling of touching a snake.

He heard a second gunshot, but instead of feeling the bullet go into his body, a clunking sound echoed above the noise of the waves. Other similar sounds were heard in the distance and James finally deduced that Tony’s suits must have finally arrived. He was feeling sluggish and that wasn’t a good sign, he couldn’t move away from Tony, his body felt numb.

“Come on comrade, backup is here.” Tony pushed him back a bit and James rolled off his back falling heavily onto the sand.

“James?”

He was glad that it seemed they were getting help, but James was too busy cataloging all the malfunctions that occurred in his body. His heart rate was dropping bit by bit, his reaction to stimuli – like Tony finding the wound in his abdomen and cursing while yelling to Jarvis to send his suit – was decreasing steadily. He found out that his metal arm was the only thing that was apparently listening to his commands.

Things were getting blurry and he almost didn’t feel anything when Tony lifted him up from the ground in his Iron Man suit while walking to the Quinjet that was arriving. His eyes felt heavy and unfocused, but Steve’s face, all pale and worried, was unmistakable. James wanted to say something but he didn’t know what, and he was feeling too tired to think.

“You can punch me later. We need to take him to medical now.”

After what it seemed like a second, James was laying down with machines hooked up all over his body, although something was stopping him from seeing the rest of his body. For a brief moment, his mind conjured Zola’s lab, his heart jumped. His metal arm moved up, ready to remove whatever was blocking the view. Something stopped the motion, and that only made him panic more.

“Steve, hold him down!” An unknown voice said.

In the next second, Steve came into view. “Bucky, calm down. I’m here. I’m Steve. You’ve been shot, we’re taking the bullet out. You have to stay still, alright buddy?”

James tried to speak, but there was a mask covering his face; without thinking, he tried to use his metal arm again to remove it. He was stopped again, and a weak distressed sound came out of his throat.

“Bucky, look at me. Look at me, you can’t do that. This is helping you breathe. See? I’m the one holding your hand. I know this is uncomfortable but you have to bear it for a bit. Everything is going to be okay.”

James stared at Steve, he wanted to believe him. He really, really did.

“What the hell?” Tony’s voice said.

Steve turned sharply towards him. “Tony?” He asked urgently while his hand traveled to James’ head, petting his hair and letting the hand stay there.

“Nothing. Nothing, you keep talking to him.” Tony said dismissively in obviously forced calmness.

James felt the same cold again, but this time it was painful, it felt as if someone was gripping his heart, he made a wounded sound – brow furrowing and his breathing stuttering. Steve turned back to him instantly.

“Buck? What’s wrong?”

James could feel Steve’s hand, with a great effort he opened his eyes, he ordered his metal hand to squeeze Steve’s. “Bucky?”James hated how Steve’s voice sounded there. He ordered his hand to do the same again.“Hey, stay with me. Everything's going to be alright.”

James was too tired to keep his eyes open so the last thing he saw was Steve’s worried face. He was too tired to even hold Steve’s hand. As his consciousness faded into the cold darkness of his mind, he thought – he wished for Steve to not make that face. He remembered that he didn’t like to see him sad. He hated that expression. He admitted it, he had forgotten, he had forgotten a lot, he was sorry for forgetting, he was so, so sorry.

 

* * *

 

It felt like a deja vu. A white ceiling and a glass wall, but instead of laying on the floor he was on a bed. There were two chairs, for some reason one of them had several cables hanging from the armrests, the other had a book, and beside it a small bedside table with another three books. James didn’t need to ponder much about who were the occupants of the chairs. He carefully tried to move his limbs, he could but they felt heavy, he sighed and turned his head to the side just to see Steve approaching. He was typing on his Starkphone, he looked really intent, so James simply watched.

Steve stopped in the doorway without looking up for a few seconds, and when he did, he immediately searched for James. When he found James however, he looked like a deer caught in the headlights. James buried his head into the pillows a bit, staring at him. “Hey.”

Just like that, Steve’s brain came back into gear. He rushed to James’ side but seemed to think better of it, stopping halfway. James reached out to him with his flesh hand and the gesture was enough for Steve. He took James’ hand in his own, “Hey, how are you feeling?”

“Sluggish. Heavy. Tired.” James said, not bothering to get rid of the annoyance he felt.

“Anything else?” Steve asked, while checking his pulse, even though there was a machine already doing that.

“Not really.”

“Okay.”

Steve didn’t seem to be aware of his thumb gently dabbing the skin of James’ hand.

“Steve?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry.”

“What are you apologizing for?”

James stared at the hand Steve was holding.

“I know I hurt you last time,” he looked straight at Steve’s eyes, “and I’m sorry.”

“Buck, it’s fine.”

“It isn’t. I’m sorry. I just forgot a lot of things.” James paused, “I’ve changed, so there are some things I won’t be able to get right.” He sighed, “But I think I know something for sure now, and it’s that I don’t want to see you sad anymore.”

Steve pressed his lips together and looked down, he shuffled in his spot squeezing James’ hand. James realized that Steve looked like he was about to cry.

“Hey, no.” He tried to move and he grunted when he felt a sharp stab of pain in his abdomen.

“Don’t move, please.” Steve moved quickly, pushing James down onto the bed, he hurriedly wiped his eyes turning around to take a chair to pull it closer to the bed.

“You’re not the only one who needs to apologize,” Steve said determinedly, jaw set and his eyes a bit red, “I’m sorry for what I did. I handled this situation poorly. Looking back, I don’t know what I was thinking by forcing you into something you didn’t want.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not, it wasn’t.”

“Yeah… but I get it, so it’s okay.”

“You’re still my friend, you know?”

James replied quietly, “And I don’t hate you.”

Steve scrubbed his face with his hand, his eyes looked watery, his nose was red and his cheeks were flushed, but he was smiling as if James had told him the greatest thing ever. James felt an overwhelming wave of fondness.

“I’m still not going to your doctors though,” James said with a smirk, prompting Steve to laugh.

“Is Tony alright?” James asked and when Steve opened his mouth to reply another voice interrupted him.

“I am unharmed, but you just knocked off another few years of my life, so thanks.” Tony strolled in, his expression trying to mimic a scolding teacher while his relief was plainly visible in his eyes.

He approached the other side of the bed, and sat facing James.

“Next time let me get the bullet since it’s pretty likely it won’t be a bullet specifically made to, _literally_ , shut me down.”

James was ready to ask what that meant, but first Tony snapped his fingers in realization. “Or better yet, neither of us gets shot for the next couple of years, deal? Do we have a deal here?” In that instant, James realized that he also cared about Tony, he relaxed even more onto the bed.

“You’re a fool,” he said with a laugh.

Tony narrowed his eyes, gesticulating with flourish.“Excuse- _moi?_ Say that again. I dare you to say that again. I double dare you!”

“He thinks you’re funny,” Steve said, with a twist of his mouth, that could be seen as fond resignation.

Tony blinked. “What?”

“Yeah, I don’t know why he thinks that you’re funny. He must still be under the effects of the drug.”

James gave Steve a lazy smile, and he lit up like a Christmas decoration. James thought to himself, while Tony and Steve quipped back and forth, that maybe someday he would be all right, enough to fully enjoy these moments. Because these moments were fleeting and marvelous and far too scarce to pass them up, or taking them for granted. Sleep easily came to him, not like in the past, but like something new, fresh, kind and gentle.


End file.
